


Can't Be Trusted Around You

by dreamlittleyo



Series: I'm Not Sorry (Kinky Dice Oneshots) [8]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, M/M, Non-Consensual, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining, Protectiveness, Rank Disparity, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 15:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16875756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: When Hamilton is drugged on an away mission, Washington faces an untenable choice.





	Can't Be Trusted Around You

"If we were aboard ship, I'd lock you in the brig until you sober up," Washington mutters, urging Hamilton one wobbly step at a time along the poorly lit street. Even at this late hour there are people of all stripes and shapes hurrying in every direction. This close to the center of Gantry Beta's largest city, nighttime doesn't slow the world down much.

Hamilton laughs and leans harder against his side. "You're bluffing. You won't lock me up. You like me too much."

"I don't like you very much right now." Displeasure sharpens Washington's voice.

The laughter vanishes from Hamilton's tone. "Why're you angry?"

Washington's arm tightens around the boy's narrow waist as they step down off a high curb. He's ready when Hamilton loses his footing—an inevitable stumble—and he keeps them moving along the thoroughfare at a steady clip.

"Because I was only gone _one hour_ and somehow you managed to find trouble." He does not say a word about the burly, flirtatious admirer who had been encroaching on Hamilton's space when Washington returned to the bar. He does not snarl disapprovingly about conduct unbecoming an officer. It's none of his business who his officers choose to flirt with.

His personal interest in _this particular crewman_ is all the worse for the vast gulf in their ranks. It would be troublesome enough regardless—even senior staff are off limits to a starship captain—but Hamilton is only a junior lieutenant, and newly promoted at that. Impossibly young. Ambitious and competent and unstoppable.

Washington should not want to summon the young man to his ready room and order him to his knees. And he _cannot_ be jealous of some stranger on a planet he will likely never see again, just because Hamilton appeared to be flirting back.

He swallows all the should-nots and can-nots, and instead growls, "When you are wearing that uniform, you are a _Starfleet officer first_. Public inebriation is a clear violation of the uniform code. I should write you up the moment we're back aboard ship."

Hamilton stops abruptly, forcing his captain to either halt or drag him bodily forward.

Angry as Washington is, he is not quite furious enough to manhandle the boy that way. He freezes and looks down, only to find Hamilton staring at him with a perplexed furrow bisecting his brow.

"What is it now?" Washington demands impatiently.

"I'm not inebriated." Hamilton enunciates every words distinctly, in that too-deliberate way of the truly impaired.

Washington sighs. "How many drinks did he buy you?"

"None."

"Lieutenant—"

"I _didn't drink anything_ ," Hamilton insists stubbornly. "I was _on duty_. I don't drink on duty."

He sounds too earnest to be lying, and Washington's brow lowers in confusion. "Then what in god's name—?"

"It was the hypo. Not drinks. He— He surprised me with it, but he said it wasn't— Said it wouldn't hurt me. Said not to worry about it."

Like a switch flipping, the simmering anger in Washington's chest finds a new target and ratchets up to a raging inferno.

Someone drugged his boy. Maybe that giant he saw crowding Hamilton when Washington first returned to the bar. His vision swims and he is already reversing course. He's going to march back in there and kill the man with his own hands. And then, _after_ the bastard is dead, Washington will explain to the authorities why this unfortunate turn of events simply could not be avoided.

He doesn't bother asking why Hamilton didn't tell him about the goddamn hypospray. Whatever the lieutenant has been dosed with, it's clearly designed to render him malleable. Cooperative. Of course he didn't mention the hypospray: Washington _did not ask_.

Hamilton stumbles and nearly falls out of his arms, unable to keep up with Washington's aggressive new pace.

"S— Sir?" he asks in obvious confusion. "Why're we turning around?"

Washington pauses at the edge of the street, near a darkened and empty door frame. He has to _think_. This won't do. He can't drag Hamilton back to the bar they just left. The boy is in no condition to navigate the altercation Washington is gunning for.

"Captain?" Hamilton says in a smaller voice, interrupting the whirl of Washington's thoughts. "I don't feel right."

Hamilton is suddenly swaying even worse than before, and all thoughts of brawling vanish from Washington's head in favor of more urgent concern. He guides Hamilton back against what he hopes is a clean patch of wall. They are both of them ensconced in heavy shadow now, but at least Hamilton remains upright. He begins to list left when Washington tries to ease back, so Washington stays close. Awkward as this is, he remains exactly where he is, pinning Hamilton to the wall with the steady bulk of his body.

The sound Hamilton breathes just then is…

Jesus, it's filthy. Low and smooth and tinged with pleasure. Before Washington can jerk back, Hamilton grabs hold of him _hard_. Hands at his biceps, fingers twisting in the sleeves of his uniform.

It's impossible to read facial expressions in the smothering dark of the archway they've slipped beneath, but Washington can make out the too-wide glitter of Hamilton's eyes.

"What the hell is this?" Washington demands. The question is rhetorical—how the hell is Hamilton supposed to know what's going on when he's clearly addled—and when this must be a result of the chemical coursing through him.

"Sir?" Hamilton's grip on him tightens as though he is terrified Washington will try again to retreat.

"God damn it," Washington snarls. He originally intended to walk Hamilton back to their temporary quarters and allow him to sleep off what he assumed was perfectly normal intoxication. But Hamilton is not drunk, he is _drugged_ , and Washington has to get him help.

He fumbles his communicator into his hand without letting go of Hamilton. "Washington to Nelson, come in."

"Nelson here." Church's voice cuts smoothly through the relative quiet of the street. "Is everything all right, Captain? Were you able to purchase the coordinates?" The entire purpose of this visit, obtaining intel for Starfleet.

Washington doesn't care about his official mission at present.

"Yes. But we have an unrelated problem. Has Laurens managed to cut through the interference and get the transporters working?"

"No," Angelica says with a rising tinge of worry. "Is something wrong with the shuttlecraft?"

Washington suppresses a frustrated sigh. "The shuttle is halfway across the city. I was hoping to beam Hamilton directly aboard." He'll settle for a medical clinic near their temporary lodgings, but if something is truly _wrong_ he won't be pleased with the delay. He has far more confidence in the Nelson's sickbay and hyper-competent medical staff, than in strangers on a planet that does not even have its own transporter facilities.

"Fuck," Angelica says, which means she must be answering from somewhere private. "What happened?"

"Someone drugged him. He's in rough shape."

"I could send another shuttlecraft—"

"No." Washington shakes his head even though Angelica can't see him. "Even if you send them to our exact location, they won't reach us any faster than we can reach our own shuttle. I don't want more of the crew on this goddamn planet."

Hamilton laughs at that, a giggling snicker as though it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. He begins to list the other direction, and Washington has to shift his hold to keep him upright. He manages not to startle when skinny arms wrap around his shoulders; at least this way Hamilton won't fall over.

"There must be something we can do to help," Angelica protests.

"There isn't." Washington touches Hamilton's forehead and is relieved to find that at least the lieutenant doesn't have a fever. "I'll find a local medical facility, and if I don't like what they have to say we'll board our shuttle and return to the ship immediately." It won't be a quick journey—the interference in the planet's atmosphere has just as much impact on navigation equipment as transporters—but if Hamilton's condition is dubious, Washington will do it anyway.

"Understood." Angelica sounds distinctly unhappy about it. "Nelson out."

Which leaves Washington alone, with a supremely compromised lieutenant clinging to him, and several dozen city blocks to traverse.

"Stop worrying." Hamilton presses the words distractingly along Washington's throat, nuzzling like an affectionate cat. "Gonna be _fine_. You'll take care of me."

Washington breathes out, long and low. "Lieutenant—"

Then Hamilton catches Washington's earlobe between his teeth, a stinging nip followed by a teasing swipe of tongue.

" _Lieutenant_ ," Washington barks more forcefully. He reaches for Hamilton's arms and drags them away from his shoulders with more force than necessary. He can't step away—he still can't afford to let Hamilton _fall_ —but he pins the boy's wrists to the wall to keep him from burrowing close again.

"Sir?" Hamilton sounds confused rather than chagrined. "What's wrong?"

Washington can't imagine trying to explain to his uncomprehending subordinate why his actions are inappropriate. So instead he crouches low and tugs Hamilton over his shoulder, straightening with little difficulty under the boy's scrawny weight. Carrying Hamilton will hopefully keep him out of trouble _and_ allow them to move faster, both things Washington is very much in favor of.

Hamilton squawks in surprise, but doesn't fight as he's hoisted over Washington's shoulder. Washington hooks an arm around gangly knees, anchoring his cargo.

"Behave," he orders for good measure. Just because Hamilton is being cooperative for the moment doesn't mean he won't start to squirm while they travel, and that is not something Washington has patience for at the moment.

"Yes, sir," Hamilton squeaks uncertainly, bracing his arms against Washington's back but holding blessedly still.

They make quick progress now that Washington can focus on the weight over his shoulder rather than trying to help Hamilton navigate. By the time they reach their destination he's growing tired, but his cargo has continued to cooperate. There have been verbal interjections—protests at being carried like a sack of supplies—but no active sabotage. Even better, a public clinic only two buildings from their lodging place proclaims thirty-eight hour service, all-day-every-day. Washington hauls his wayward lieutenant inside and demands immediate service.

He's separated from his boy then, but the staff directs him to a sterile waiting area and he goes without a fuss. Washington grudgingly settles into a chair that creaks beneath his weight, and does his best to breathe.

\- — - — - — -

"See? Told you. M'gonna be just fine."

"Lieutenant, please stop talking." After nearly an hour of waiting for word from the clinic staff, Washington wants only to return to their temporary quarters and _sleep_. He is relieved that Hamilton is in no danger, and grateful he doesn’t need to navigate the difficult path out of the planet's atmosphere while he's this tired. But his patience is also wearing thin. Hamilton's voice, bright and energetic, primes his senses in ways he is not equipped to deal with tonight.

At least they’ve reached their own damn door. The corridor to either side of them is completely empty, and Washington presses his hand to the locking panel beside the jamb. The door slides open for him with an obliging beep, and he manhandles Hamilton across the threshold.

"We don't need to talk," Hamilton answers. The door slides shut, and the overhead lights brighten automatically. "We can do other things."

Washington's brow furrows and he turns to look down at his boy. The question— _what other things_ —evaporates when Hamilton rises onto his toes and kisses him. 

Probably he is aiming to land the kiss squarely on his captain's mouth, but he ends up a little to the left, where the corners of Washington's lips are already turning downward.

"Hamilton, that is _enough_ ," Washington snaps, but a moment later Hamilton redirects instead of backing down. This kiss takes Washington's mouth hard, a sneaky thrust of tongue darting past parted lips as Hamilton’s arms wrap around his neck and hold on.

The clinic staff did not warn him about _this_. They told him the name of the chemical in Hamilton's bloodstream. Reassured him it was not lethal, that it should clear his system by morning. There was talk of severe discomfort and sensory overstimulation along the way, of a serious possibility Hamilton would need help dealing with overwhelming symptoms. No one in that damn clinic mentioned the symptoms might involve aggressively propositioning a commanding officer.

For several seconds Washington is too stunned to move. It's purely surprise—he refuses to _enjoy_ the pleading kiss Hamilton would certainly not offer under different circumstances—but his mind whirls helplessly, and it takes longer than it should for Washington to react.

He requires a remarkable amount of strength and finesse to pry Hamilton off of him, and he worries about bruising delicate wrists as he holds the young officer at bay.

Dark eyes blink up at Washington, awash in disappointment. "Sir? What's wrong?"

Washington does not answer. Hamilton's mind is too far afield for Washington to explain something so obvious. Whatever madness has gotten into him, Washington cannot hope to talk his way through and reach the boy's better reason.

"I need you to stop," Washington says simply. " _Stand down_ , Lieutenant. That is a _direct order_."

Hamilton immediately stops squirming in his hold. Instant obedience with an almost mindless edge to it.

"Okay." Washington ignores an unpleasant shiver. "If I order you to sleep, do you think you can?" He tried asking the clinic about sedatives, but the doctors shot him down, unsure how the drugs would interact with the chemicals already careening through Hamilton's system.

Hamilton's brow furrows as though he is genuinely considering the question. "Maybe."

Washington guides Hamilton to the edge of one of the narrow beds and coaxes him to sit down. When he takes his hands away, Hamilton sways a little unsteadily, but he doesn't fall. He doesn't try to follow either, as Washington straightens and takes a deliberate step back. But there is hurt in his expression, and a whirlwind of questions flashes in his eyes.

Hamilton's voice holds unfamiliar vulnerability when he asks, "Why don't you want to touch me?"

"I'm your captain." It's the simplest answer he can offer.

"Captains can want things." The furrow in Hamilton’s brow deepens. " _You_ want things. I know you do. I've seen the way you look at me."

Oh. Fuck.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Lieutenant." Lean on the boy's rank. Emphasize the distance between them, the professional contours of their relationship. He cannot keep his voice cold, but he manages an approximation of his usual sternness.

"But—"

"You said you would sleep."

There's no hint of insubordination in Hamilton's tone when he answers, "But you haven't ordered me to do it yet."

Washington's jaw clenches and he barely stifles a growl of frustration. " _Sleep_. That _is_ an order." He doesn't bother suggesting Hamilton change into more comfortable clothing for rest. Hamilton can sleep in his damn uniform for all Washington cares, so long as he behaves.

Hamilton scoots farther onto the bunk without taking his eyes off his captain. There is wounded disappointment written across his far too expressive face, and Washington curses internally. How is it this ridiculous boy can make him feel _guilty_ for doing the right thing? Hamilton is not himself. He is _unwell_. What business does he have making Washington reel with remorse for refusing his clumsy advances?

It's a relief when Hamilton lies back against the pillows and closes his eyes. The beacon of his attention fades, leaving Washington shaken and tired and sullen.

He doesn't know if the boy is actually asleep. It’s distinctly possible; the drug seems to have rendered him suggestible. He may have responded to the command by nodding off immediately. Just in case he didn't, Washington crosses to the panel beside the door and calls up the security protocols. A handful of simple modifications—he doesn’t even need to disassemble the panel—and he has the reassurance of knowing Hamilton will not be able to open the door without him.

His contrary lieutenant is not going anywhere.

Washington's own exhaustion is potent beneath his skin, and he prepares for sleep himself with military efficiency. A quick shower, a change of clothes, a quiet command to deactivate the overhead lights. The blackness isn't complete—a window allows far too much light in from the street outside—streaking pink and blue and green across the ceiling, from the sign boards of commercial establishments across the street.

He checks on Hamilton before collapsing into his own bunk. The boy is breathing steadily, drifted into a sound and unbroken sleep.

Washington breathes easier at this improbable fact. He eases into bed, head falling hard atop the cool pillow and eyes closing heavily. He’s asleep damn near instantly, a rolling fog of dreamlessness blanketing his mind and pushing the world away.

He wakes to the same imperfect darkness. His internal time sense, reliable even on strange worlds, tells him it's been nearly two hours since he nodded off, and he wonders what woke him. He is still exhausted. His head throbs dully with a half-formed headache and all he wants is to slip back into sleep. But his senses are on high alert, and it takes him longer than it should to figure out why.

A hitching breath comes from behind him—he must have rolled to face the wall in his sleep—and Washington shivers at the sound.

Against his better judgment, he shifts in his bunk, rolling to face the other way. To look across the room.

The view he finds is not for him. Hamilton is unmistakably awake—Washington can see dark eyes glinting in the dimness—and he is… occupied. Another hitching breath shakes through him, and Washington realizes the boy is trying to keep quiet. Breathing hard, chest rising and falling shallowly as Hamilton squirms. He is lying on top of the blankets on his bed, and his uniform jacket is gone, his hair loose and falling messily across the pillow.

His shirt has rucked up high on his stomach and his fly is open. One hand curls and strokes in an unmistakable movement, and while Washington can't see the lieutenant's cock through the shadows, he also can't pretend Hamilton _isn't_ jerking off.

He should be mortified. He should order Hamilton to stop. At the very goddamn least he should remove himself from the room until Hamilton is finished.

It would be unforgivable to simply lie quietly where he is and _watch_. Which means Washington has no excuse for why that is exactly what he does. Hamilton clearly hasn't noticed he's awake, despite the fact that Washington made no effort to be discreet in turning to face the boy. Or perhaps he doesn't care. His entire focus seems held by his efforts—his lower lip is caught between his teeth, his spine arched taut—and though his eyes are open, they don't seem the slightest bit aware of the room around them.

 _Sensory overstimulation_ , Washington thinks helplessly.

He can't imagine the boy will last long. Not as quickly as his hand is moving, as tightly as he seems to be gripping himself.

But when Hamilton groans a more audible sound, there's no hint of pleasure in it. It's an agonized sob, helpless and frantic and frustrated.

The sound has Washington up from his bed in an instant, dropping to his knees beside Hamilton's low bunk. He shouldn't touch. But he can't help the hand he sets to Hamilton's shaking shoulder, or the grip he uses to circle the boy's wrist to stop his desperate stroking.

Hamilton sobs again, louder than before, and yanks his wrist in Washington's hold.

But Washington holds on and guides Hamilton's hand away from his cock. Superior strength means he wins the brief contest of wills, and after a moment those lost eyes blink and clear. Hamilton turns his head and catches sight of his captain. His jaw drops. He looks utterly shocked.

" _Sir_." The word comes out ragged with heat, and Washington’s traitor of a cock stirs as though that one word is a reasonable proposition. As though he has any right to want the helpless young officer beneath his hands.

"Are you in pain, Lieutenant?"

Hamilton swallows. "It doesn't hurt. It's just _not enough_. I can't do it myself."

Washington's eyes fall closed and he clenches his jaw. Hamilton cannot possibly be saying what Washington's selfish mind is trying to suggest. Never mind that Hamilton kissed him. Never mind the boy's accusations. Never mind the fire in the hungry stare that is _still_ drilling into him. Hamilton is not asking to be touched. Even if he were, Washington could not justify accepting the plea.

"You could help me," Hamilton says, shattering the desperate wall of denial.

Washington opens his eyes and stares. He holds perfectly still. "You said you would sleep."

"I did." The words are a dispirited cry. "I _tried_. But then I woke up and you weren't here, and I needed— I couldn't— Fuck, I just need to—" And then the boy's unrestrained hand is reaching for his cock with the same thoughtless desperation. Washington intercepts him, and pins both wrists to the mattress on either side of Hamilton's head.

Hamilton chokes on a sound so raw and shattered that Washington almost lets go. Almost lets him continue as he was, because he can't bear to cause his boy pain.

But he already knows allowing Hamilton to touch himself won't resolve this. If he were able to handle his own needs, he would've succeeded by now. So Washington keeps Hamilton pinned—despite the arch of a lithe body trying to escape his hold—despite the snarl of frustration that follows when the escape attempt fails. He holds his boy down and tells himself this is necessary.

"Hamilton, _stop_ ," he orders, and is relieved when the twisting efforts abruptly cease. Still suggestible, then. Fortunate. But also awful, because Washington does not want this extra weight of responsibility.

Hamilton watches him with shining eyes, restless need painted across his face in the streaks of green and pink from the window.

"Why won't you help me?" There is such pleading in the question. "At least let _me_ finish it, if you won't."

"You'll only hurt yourself." Washington's throat is tight. His skin is too hot, his mouth dry. His burgeoning headache is gone, replaced with adrenaline and the frantic staccato of his racing heartbeat in his temples.

"Sir, please don't leave me like this." Hamilton sounds barely lucid. "You don't know. You don't know how it fucking feels. It's under my skin. It _burns_. It's going to tear me apart, and I can't make it stop, please make it stop."

" _Breathe_ , Alexander." The name slips past Washington's defenses. Too late to take it back. "You're not in any danger. You'll feel better by morning."

"It's too much," Hamilton snarls. He's panting now, unsteady breaths, noisy in the quiet. " _Fuck_ , if you won't help me, can't you knock me out?"

"The doctors said no sedatives."

"Then clock me. Do it the old fashioned way, I don't care. I don't want to feel like this anymore." There is genuine pleading in Hamilton's tone, and it's this—the surreal request that his captain _hit him to knock him unconscious_ —that drives understanding home. Makes Washington realize just how awful the boy must feel.

He still can’t quite believe his own voice when he asks, "Are you sure? If I touch you will it help?"

" _Yes_ ," Hamilton breathes, though Washington has doubts despite the certainty in that word. "God yes. Don't— Don't fucking tease. Why are you even still talking?"

Washington considers his limited options. He could return to his bed and leave Hamilton to his torment, alone and suffering but unmolested. He could find a way to restrain the boy and prevent him from hurting himself—a different flavor of agony, and equally untenable.

Or Washington could give him what he is begging for. Touch him. Help him. Distract him at the very least. It would be the kindest option if it were not also unforgivably selfish. He has wanted Hamilton too long to offer any pretense of disinterest; worse, the boy _knows_. When morning comes and this decision is behind them, Washington can only imagine the consequences he will face.

In the end, the decision is easier than it should be. Consequences or no, Washington can't look into those pleading eyes and refuse.

"Okay," he says, and the blissful gratitude that brightens Hamilton's features is enough to break his heart.

Again he considers his options, though this time it's the logistics of the situation making him hesitate. There is no way to maintain his distance, or to keep this precise and clinical. The best he can do is keep his own want-need-hunger out of the equation. A difficult prospect, but not impossible.

He can't remain kneeling on the floor—he doesn't trust Hamilton to behave and let him work, and he doesn't have enough leverage—so Washington pushes his boy away from the edge of the mattress and eases onto the bunk behind him. Spooning along his back and slipping an arm beneath him, trapping both of Hamilton's narrow wrists in the solid grip of one large hand. Holding them pinned tight to Hamilton's chest, as he snugs their bodies together and drapes his free arm over the boy's hip, reaching for his cock.

Hamilton whimpers at the first brush of fingers, and his head falls back against Washington's chest. The trapped wrists tug uselessly—Washington's grip is damn near unbreakable and his boy is already exhausted—and Hamilton’s chest rises and falls rapidly.

" _Please_." The word is impossibly quiet.

Washington lets go of Hamilton's cock just long enough to lick his palm—he doesn't have anything better to smooth the way—and then reaches forward once more. Curls his fingers firmly around the straining arousal. Gives a measured stroke that slides down and then up the entire length of Hamilton's cock.

His boy _keens_ , arching against him, bucking forward into the circle of Washington's grip.

Washington's fingers loosen. He doesn't let Hamilton force a harder rhythm. He saw just how ineffectual the previous frantic pace was—how utterly it failed to bring release—and he has no intention of continuing on the same. It's entirely possible he won't be able to bring Hamilton to orgasm. But he can do this more carefully, force a gentler pace. Perhaps wear him to exhaustion and allow a little more rest.

It might be a long shot, but it's the only plan Washington has.

He gives another stroke, teasingly light. When Hamilton tries to rut forward again, Washington shifts behind him, raises a leg to pin it over Hamilton's thigh and keep him still. It’s an awkward angle, but at least it keeps Hamilton nearer to motionless. Gives Washington all the time he needs to explore and experiment and measure the task before him.

"Fucking _asshole_ ," Hamilton groans, jerking ineffectually beneath the new weight hooked over his leg.

"Let me do this my way." Washington murmurs the words into Hamilton's ear, resisting the urge to press a kiss to the boy's fluttering pulse point. "Let me take care of you."

He trails his fingers once more the length of Hamilton's shaft—still too light a touch—but the sob Hamilton breathes is unmistakably pleasure rather than pain. Which means this is progress. This is _good_. Washington can keep this up a long damn time. And he will, if that is what Hamilton needs.

On his next stroke, he swipes his thumb through the precome gathering at the tip and uses the extra slickness to smooth the glide of his hand. He grips a little more firmly now, adds more moisture on his next pass. Even so he doesn't rush toward the finish line. He has every reason to take his time—to sustain this as long as he can—to prolong the distraction in case even Washington can't lead the way to orgasm.

His own cock is diamond-hard, but he ignores the pressure, the hint of friction as Hamilton thrashes in his arms. This is not about him. He does his best to will his arousal away, focusing on his task. Letting his entire world shrink to the young, shattered lieutenant trapped against his chest.

" _Please_ ," Hamilton moans, low and ragged. The word repeats. Again and again. A helpless mantra that twines its way into Washington's heart and leaves him aching.

The mantra ends in a choking sob, an abortive attempt to fuck forward despite all the ways in which Washington is immobilizing him. Still a sound more of pleasure than pain—desperation, yes, but no hint of the raw agony that woke Washington such a short time ago.

"I know," Washington murmurs. "I know, my boy. Just breathe." He eases off a little, loosens his grip. Slows the pace to something more leisurely.

Coaxes Hamilton back from the edge by grudging degrees.

"Don't stop," Hamilton pleads.

"Shh." Washington sets his chin to Hamilton's shoulder, tucks his leg more securely over the boy’s bony hip. "I won't. I've got you." He keeps his hand moving, drags his thumb along the underside of Hamilton's cock. Presses beneath the ridge before swiping more moisture from the tip.

It feels like an eternity of keeping him on edge. Working him into a frenzy only to ease him down again. Washington learns more than he ever wanted to about Hamilton's encyclopedic knowledge of oaths and curses. Learns there is a point near the height of pleasure where the boy ceases to speak entirely, where he is reduced to gasps and grunts and helpless whimpers. Learns exactly how much strength is required to keep Hamilton pinned down when desperation overrides every other instinct.

He learns what this competent, ambitious, prideful young officer sounds like on the very edge of orgasm.

It is knowledge that will haunt him forever. He has no right to know these things. No right to memorize the feel of the cock sliding across his palm, or the impossible warmth of a lithe body against his chest.

Hamilton's wrists will bear noticeable bruising from his struggles, and he will inevitably ache from overstimulation. Washington's own tired wrist will be no trouble at all in comparison; he is nowhere near giving up yet.

He continues at the same maddening, variable pace. His stubbornness is a relentless match for the young man writhing in his grasp. Another gradual buildup. Another deliberate disappointment and soothing words.

"Why won't you let me come?" Hamilton sobs, turning his head to press the side of his face to Washington's chest. "Fuck, please, I've been so good."

"Not yet." Washington gentles his voice, doing his best to calm the boy. "Soon. Just a little more." He's already kept him on edge for more than an hour. It's a cruel dance, and one he can't sustain much longer. They're nearing the point where he will have to allow the experiment—try to tumble Hamilton over the edge—and pray that, success or not, he is wrung out enough to rest.

He knows Hamilton is aware of Washington's answering arousal. Somewhere along the way he took notice of the erection pressed to the small of his back, and has been grinding deliberately against Washington ever since, as though determined to drive him mad in turn. It has rendered the dance more challenging, but Washington is a man of determination and control.

He hasn't come, and he does not intend to do so in a subordinate’s bed.

"God, I hate you so much right now," Hamilton groans when he tries to rut forward harder and—as every time before—can't get enough leverage to escape Washington's well-tested trap. As though in retaliation, he rolls his hips backward instead. Rubbing his backside directly against Washington's straining cock. Making it difficult to _think_ , let alone focus on his task.

"You asked for my help," Washington manages, though he sounds breathless and wrong.

"You call this _help_? You're a goddamn sadist. You're just trying to drive me insane." But even the fact that Hamilton sounds lucid is a testament to the fact that Washington's tactics are _working_. Railing against his ceaseless torment, but able to argue, rant, insult his captain. None of which he'd been capable of when Washington woke and found him working himself into an ineffectual frenzy with no glimmer of satisfaction in sight.

"Is it working?" Washington manages to sound more wry than breathless this time.

"Oh god, fuck you," Hamilton gasps, but he's still grinding on Washington's cock as he says it. Riding against him encouragingly, trying to goad him into changing the rules.

"You're almost there," Washington promises, tightening his grip once more.

Hamilton cries out—over-sensitized despite Washington's efforts to pace himself and be gentle—and pleads, "Don't lie to me. You won't— You're just gonna stop me at the finish line again, I fucking _know you are_. Oh god, please-please-please, _sir_!" His voice rises with every stroke of Washington's hand along his cock—as with every stroke the grip tightens by deliberate degrees—and coherent back talk is abruptly replaced with a fresh, mindless mantra begging for release.

This time Washington does not slow down.

Hamilton comes with a cry so loud that Washington releases his wrists to cover his mouth, muffling the shout of ecstasy as he coaxes his boy through an orgasm that seems to last forever. He keeps trailing his fingers along Hamilton's cock until at last the cry cuts off, then drops his hand so that Hamilton can breathe properly, panting gasps taking air into depleted lungs.

The hand that has finally finished jerking his boy off is a wet, sticky mess and Washington wipes the worst of it away on the bedclothes. It leaves his hand clean enough to card soothing fingers through sweat-damp hair, gentling Hamilton through the aftershocks. Murmuring hushed and calming nonsense as his boy shakes apart in his arms.

When Washington removes himself from the bed, he is relieved to find Hamilton bleary and fading. His boy manages to roll onto his other side so that he can watch Washington disappear into the washroom; his eyes are still open when Washington returns with a wet cloth to clean him up. Hamilton doesn't even move during the indignity of being tucked back in his uniform—does not seem to notice Washington's hands, unsteady with fatigue, fixing his fly—too exhausted and wrung-dry himself to do more than stare.

Those eyes are still watching as Washington retreats to the washroom a second time, but he honestly doesn't care. In this moment he has other priorities.

He closes the door behind him and opens his own uniform. Takes himself in hand with a groan and a grateful shudder.

Half a dozen strokes are all it takes to bring himself off. He was primed as hell—barely holding back by the end—and the relief is so powerful he sinks to his knees. Doesn't even care if his voice carries through the door. Even if Hamilton is not yet asleep, Washington simply does not have the mental fortitude to worry about what the boy will think.

He takes as long as he can manage cleaning himself up, but he's too exhausted for the shower he truly needs. He's nearly asleep on his feet as he emerges into their shared quarters and returns to his bunk.

Hamilton's eyes are closed, and he's shifted onto his back. His chest rises and falls steadily.

So beautiful Washington's chest aches.

He tries not to think about the morning only a couple hours away. Hamilton will hopefully sleep until then, but Washington can’t begin to guess what will happen when he wakes. What will he think? How much will he remember? Will he be grateful or furious? Pragmatic or wounded?

Washington could drive himself mad wondering, and still be no closer to the answers. With difficulty, he sets pending panic aside and closes his eyes. Tomorrow.

He will face demons and consequences tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> I also hang out **[over on Dreamwidth](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/)** , if you'd like to find me there.


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